There is toddler poo under my fingernail.
Every box of cereal is open
because choice is something that turns you
into a fist. My eyes are the bags that used to live
underneath them on Sunday mornings
eating sausages through beer breath
texting friends to see if they’re alone this morning.
Mr Tumble makes me laugh. The weight of showing
you how to evolve and talk and listen hangs around my neck like a phone call
I think about most days. We’re sitting
on a cold morning bench at a train station
you will grow up near. You are dancing to
the sound of the announcer’s voice listing towns
neither of us know. How this world came to be
is nothing more than smart shoes, a posh meal,
and a trust that will always let me fall.

© Carl Burkitt 2022